Will You Still Call Me Superman?
by Lady Lylia
Summary: A sardonic, bitter, macabre look at the life of Superman. NOT a typical view!!! Just the child of an idle brain, PLEASE R/R!!!
1. If I go crazy, then will you still call ...

"If I go crazy then will you still  
  
Call me Superman  
  
If I'm alive and well, will you be  
  
There holding my hand  
  
I'll keep you by my side with  
  
My superman might  
  
Kryptonite" -Kryptonite by 3 Doors Down  
  
  
  
A phone booth. A dirty, grimy phone booth. Trash everywhere. The government was supposed to take care of cleaning these, weren't they? Public works and all of that. Of course, the government was also supposed to do law enforcement, but that one always seemed out of their hands too. Funny how that happened, every time.  
  
I tried to ignore it, tried to just put on my costume. Amazing, isn't it? Take of your nerdy glasses, put on some spandex, and you're a hero. A superhero. Superman, even. Yeah, that's me, Superman. That's who they loved, who they idolized. Not Clark Kent, NEVER Clark Kent. Of course they didn't worship Clark Kent! Why would anyone give a damn about a mousy, quiet, mundane reporter? A REPORTER, for Christ's sake!  
  
No one cares about the guy who writes the story, only the guy who makes the story. You'd think I would be happy then, wouldn't you? I'm both. So even the occasional oddball who reads the "By Clark Kent" part of the news article would still be thinking about me. But it doesn't work that way. It's not that easy, never that easy.  
  
It's enough to drive a man mad. Even a Superman. I mean, which one am I? Am I the quiet reporter, or the bicep-ridden hero? Glasses and tweed, or spandex and cape? What to wear, what to wear.  
  
What hurts the most, the weirdest part, is that I'm jealous of myself. You would think I would never be, never need to be. But every time I see Lois staring at a picture in the paper, a picture that looks suspiciously like me in spandex, I get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. And when Superman is carrying Ms. Lane to safety, I can't help but feel sad, for Clark. Who am I anymore?  
  
Nevermind, I don't have time for this. The bank on 32nd and 8th has been robbed, again. Third time this week. No time to sit and contemplate which identity is mine. Not even enough time to straighten my cape. Only enough time to dash out of the phone booth, trying frantically to fix the ride that can only come from wearing your briefs on the outside. Just my day, huh? 


	2. Superman Never Made Any Money

"Superman never made any money  
  
For saving the world from Solomon Grundy  
  
And sometimes I despair the world will never see  
  
Another man like him" -Superman's Song by Crash Test Dummies  
  
  
  
I walk up the steps. Elevator's down, yet again. Just when you want an elevator, you get stuck with a few dozen flights of stairs. Not pretty stairs, either. They remind me of the phone booth. Trash everywhere. There are stains on the walls, dark reddish brown ones. Not bloodstains, Jesus those had better not be bloodstains. Not now, I can't deal with that. No more bloodstains today.  
  
That bastard had had a gun. Shot me a few times, and the bastard still got away! Lucky it wasn't kryptonite, I suppose. Just good ole' steel bullets. Not enough to kill, just sting like all hell as they ricocheted off me. And climbing the stairs isn't making this day any better. Yeah, I know, Superman shouldn't have a problem with stairs, he should just fly, right? But guess what? Clark Kent CAN'T fly, he might be seen! Funny, huh? Even I'm not quite sure where the line is drawn between me, myself, and I anymore.  
  
You know the saying about how crime doesn't pay? Well, neither does fighting crime. Otherwise this city-wide hero would have a much nicer bachelor pad. Yeah, bachelor pad, 'bachelor' being the key word in the phrase. Lois hardly knows I'm alive, which is just as well, I suppose. I mean, well... what DO I mean? She's never going to love Clark, never. Am I Clark?  
  
Yeah, I think to myself as I reach the door to my apartment, fighting crime definitely does not pay. I try to keep the place looking nice, but it was not exactly in mint condition when I moved in. And I'm saying 'not exactly' to be nice. Sure, I've pretty much cleaned off the walls and ceilings, but absolutely nothing short of a flame thrower is going to get rid of those purple stains all over the floors, probably from some spilled cheap wine. What's even worse are the cigarette burns everywhere. Not mine, of course, I don't smoke. No point, my internal organs are too tough to even feel the toxins that give everyone such a kick. But that doesn't magically erase the burns.  
  
I think by far the worst damage to the place (aside from the bathtub, but even I'M not tough enough to actually think about that thing) is the bedroom walls. A whole bunch of holes in the walls, looks like someone's head got smashed into the walls, over and over again. I think it was the guy who owned the place. I've overheard stories about him, from the other people on this floor. Apparently he had a girlfriend for a while, while he lived in this dump. She was supposedly a virgin when they started going out, real pretty and sweet. They're not going out anymore, not after whatever fight they had that put all the holes in the bedroom wall. They both moved on, I guess you could say. He moved into a five by nine cell, and she now "lives" in a pine box. Like I said before, crime doesn't pay. At least they sopped up the blood.  
  
You must be thinking I'm heartless by now. Don't worry, I think the same thing. Better heartless than criminally insane. I guess I'm lucky to only be the former. How do you think anyone like me could keep their sanity? As if the multiple identities weren't enough, as if the spandex riding up wasn't enough, I also have to cope with death. A whole freaking lot of death. That's what happens in my line of work (the crime-fighting one). You go out there, you try and save the damsel in distress, or beat up the bad guy. Well, believe it or not, it rarely works that way. Every once in a while, far too often, you don't succeed. Then, it doesn't matter if you try, try again. You still failed, that once.'  
  
What, you've failed, Man of Steel? How could that be? You'd be surprised. I have failed so many times, watched innocents suffer, watched innocents die. It gets to you at first. Bothers your conscience so much, you wonder if you can go on. Then, after a while, even your failures become routine. You're failures become common enough that if you don't put them aside, you go crazy. Not mildly depressed crazy, no, much worse. You become absolutely stark raving mad. Not something I look forward to, so I put the failures aside.  
  
That doesn't mean I don't think about them. Ever wonder why Superman never shows up in his PJ's to fight the forces of evil? Has nothing to do with my sense of style. It's just because I couldn't sleep if I tried. Too many faces staring at me in the dark. Beautiful women, cherubic toddlers, wrinkly geezers, all wearing the same terrified expression. The look of fear that comes from knowing you are about to die. There are several versions of it, of course, but it's like the difference between one fast food chain's burger and the next, just twisted variations on a macabre theme. Still the same heartburn, still the same nightmares. Different sides of the same coin, fast food and death. Wonder if I could make some money off of that slogan, sell it to the American Heart Association for their campaign against clogged arteries.  
  
I hang my coat up on the peg, throw my keys on the kitchen counter. I flip on the boob tube, and guess what? Mighty Mouse is on Channel 4. "Here I Come to Save the Day!" a masculine voice sings at me. What a laugh. Maybe that'll be my theme song from now on. I can sing it as I sneak up on a bank robber. Think the crook'll notice?  
  
It may not be a fortress of solitude, but hey, it's home. 


	3. I Can Be Your Hero

"I can be your hero, baby  
  
I can kiss away the pain  
  
I will stand by you forever  
  
You can take my breath away" -Hero by Enrique Iglesias  
  
  
  
I'm sitting there, at my desk. Typing furiously, as always. Recording Superman's escapades at 32nd and 8th. That's how I spend most of my time these days, writing about my own adventures. Now, the question is: Am I an egotist? I probably look like one. If only Lois knew...  
  
Damn it, here she comes now. She is so beautiful. A seraphim. Her flowing dark hair, cut just perfectly, just the right way to frame her face. She has such full lips, the color of red wine, flushed like her cheeks. Her nose was dainty, slender, childlike. Her long, elegant neck, her gracefully curved body, currently covered with a rather flattering olive green, lady's style business suit. And white silk underwear, I'll bet money on it, just thin silk hiding those curves. Jesus, what I want to do to those curves... And her eyes! Her eyes are perhaps the best feature of all; they are gold and brown swirled together, warm and sweet and intelligent, a taste of the divine.  
  
Jesus, I must sound like a loser, a fool, a celibate priest, talking about Lois like that. I can't help it, it's like she's an angel, a nymph, a goddess. Never have I seen a woman so fine! A goddess. I worship her, and she doesn't even know I'm alive. Not while I'm wearing tweed, glasses, and a pocket protector she doesn't. No, Clark Kent doesn't stand a chance.  
  
I can't help but gulp as she walks over. She must be just walking by. No surprise there, the coffee machine is right behind my desk. Don't know why she drinks the shit. I mean, all my senses are keen, but even people with no tastebuds would know how horrible that stuff is.  
  
No, she's not walking by. Definitely not walking by. She smiles at me. "Hey, Clark," she says with a smile, sits down on the edge of my desk, about the only bare surface there. "Hot story?"  
  
"Nah," I mutter, "just the usual. Superman prevents robbery, same old same old." I shuffle the papers, do anything but look into her eyes.  
  
She smiles softly, I can tell without looking up. I refuse to look up, refuse to see the dreamy look in her eyes at the mention of my alter ego's name. I can't bear it. If I dated Lois as Superman, she would be in danger. Ignoring the fact that the glasses wouldn't be enough to maintain the split identity any more. If I knew how she kissed, there'd be no stopping me... And she'd never date me, never date Clark Kent. It just was never going to happen.  
  
"So, how long is it going to take you to write this one up?" She's grinning, a bit more wickedly than I usually see. Wonder what she's up to.  
  
I shrug. "Maybe another fifteen minutes, not even." Something about her makes me look up, and I'm glad I can see her eyes. They're beautiful, more gold than brown. Like amber. Amber eyes are rare, but a few girls on Krypton had them, I remember. Amazing how stunning amber eyes are.  
  
Coyly, she crosses her legs, swings one casually back and forth as she asks, "Well, what are you doing when you finish? It's almost time to pack up for the day."  
  
Is she asking what I think she's asking? Could it be, is it possible, dare I hope? I manage to stutter, my voice hitching, "Lois, I..."  
  
I never get to finish. I can't finish, can't force the words out of my throat. I just stare at her, brown eyes meeting nearly golden ones. Her eyes are shifting in the flourescent lights, the color of honey now. Warm honey, sliding down my throat and soothing me. There's almost a halo around her.  
  
Lois just sighs, reaches out her hand, pats my shoulder. "Well, if you don't want to..." she says coolly, gets up and walks away.  
  
I don't even have the strength to call her back. I try to open my mouth, to call her name, to ask her to join me for dinner, to scream, something, ANYTHING, but the words never come. All I can do is touch my shoulder, still tingly from her touch.  
  
I look at the clock, just turned 5:01. I watch her walk away. Silk, I'd bet my soul on it, more if I was allowed to prove it. With a longing shudder at what could have been, I throw on my jacket again and punch out on the timeclock. It was going to be a long night, thinking about all the what if's, might have been's, and could be's. 


End file.
